


You Could Be Happy

by AmunetMana



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, dubcon in chapter 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack had always known that he couldn't have both Pitch and the Guardians. But that didn't make choosing between them any easier. When he hears the tales of the great General Pitchiner however, he starts to think having both might not be quite so impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pitch didn’t, as a rule, dream. Or indeed sleep at all. As one who was not human and was instead a bringer of unrestful sleep and nightmares himself, it would have not made sense for him to sleep. His only real experiences of it were those that occurred when the Sandman pulled him ruthlessly under the influence of dreamsand, and golden butterflies danced above his head, calling to him, calling to something deep within his soul. It was a sweet sleep, and Pitch somewhat loathed Sandy all the more whenever the little man chose to induce it in him. It had been a long time since his last experience with the dream sand, unsurprising since his lair had been closed off for such a long time, only reopening a month or so ago, with many months passing with him trapped in the dark depths.

 

Yet, sat still as he was under a shaft of light, he could have sworn he was dreaming right now. He still felt unable to believe it, unable to acknowledge that he could possibly be awake, that this could possibly be reality, as a sudden cool breeze stirred the stale air around him, and he was finally able to breathe deeply. He felt starved until that moment, starved of air and contact and beauty. It was only a few minutes later, the wind still swirling around him as a herald to what was to come, that in his world of grey and black, there was a sudden splash of colour. The colour danced on the wind, lighter than a leaf and twice as fragile.

 

It also hadn’t been so long ago that Pitch had wished to crush such fragility between his hands, to wipe it out from the world – because if he couldn’t have something, no one could. Now, he thought, as the figure dancing on the wind suddenly barrelled into his arms, knocking the newly acquired breath from his body, that wasn’t necessary. Was unthinkable even. His arms came up to wrap gently across the thin, blue – clad waist.

 

“You’re late,” he murmured, pulling the figure close and shutting his eyes to allow the sound of laughter to ring in his ears.

 

“Liar,” came the returning voice. Cool hands cupped his face, and he opened his eyes to be met with the sight of Jack Frost smiling down at him, “I’m just a little displaced in time.” Then cool lips were pressed against Pitch’s, and he understood. This was not one of Sandy’s dreams. The old fool could never hope to recreate this kind of bliss.

 

It didn’t make sense, in all honesty. Although, that was possibly the coil of ever – present destructive cynicism that lived inside Pitch that was speaking. Or perhaps it was simple logic speaking, showing him the statistics. Jack the Guardian. Jack-who-turned-Pitch-down. Here, in his lair, in Pitch’s space, utterly saturated by his presence, arched back and more beautiful than anything Pitch had ever seen. It did not make sense.

 

Pitch wrapped his arms securely around Jack’s waist and hips, holding the boy in place perhaps a little too tightly as he made his way deeper into the lair, down twisting paths until they slipped seamlessly into the shadows, reappearing in a secluded room. Jack shivered as they made the journey, but didn’t stop his ministrations on Pitch’s neck, or untangle his fingers from Pitch’s hair. It was a struggle to lay him down on the bed located in the room, less of a bed and more of a nest of pillows and blankets really. Despite what Pitch had told the guardians, he’d never quite managed to resist the urge of lurking beneath beds whenever he found one.

 

In the end, it was more of a general collapse, followed by an ‘oof’ as Jack was dislodged from his position, that brought the couple down onto the bedding. Pitch’s lips immediately sought out Jack’s, beginning gently in apology, before he let himself go, devouring and exploring Jack as he wished, the younger spirit arching backwards and not even bothering to hide the noises that escaped his mouth.

 

Pitch could never get tired of seeing him like this. Jack being in his presence like this, _loving_ it and loving _him_ with his perfect, cool touch and the spread of lace-like ice across his skin, making Pitch shiver and marvel at the way that even the dank grey of his shin could be made beautiful.

 

“You’re perfect,” he breathed out across the shell of Jack’s ear, and the boy shivered beneath him, moaning and arching up towards Pitch, into his hands. His face always contorted when Pitch said those words; Jack had never been told he was beautiful before, let alone perfect. Silver lashes would flutter dazedly as Jack clung to him, but the disbelief was always in his eyes, no matter how many times Pitch insisted. Pitch made it his aim each time they came together to make Jack believe it a little more.

 

And as Jack trembled beneath him, softly at first and then violently, fiercely, his fingers tightening their grip on his arms –Jack screamed as he arched up one final time, Pitch’s own voice rising to meet him as they collapsed back together onto the bedding. Looking at Jack’s gaze in the aftermath, as lazy fingers traced across grey skin and frosted skin in turn, Pitch would peer into Jack’s eyes and think that just for a moment maybe he’d been able to convince Jack, even just for a moment, of his perfection.

 

 _He didn’t need Jack to fit a universal status of perfection, or even want him to. He just needed Jack to be perfect for him. And knew that he already was_.

 

There were several options as to what might happen next. Sometimes Jack had Guardian business, and had to disappear straight away. That was usually in the winter when his power was more needed, or North wanted White Christmases to order. Those times Pitch would watch in silence as Jack left, remaining silent and still for long stretches after he had left. There was little for him to do, if he ventured out for too long the Guardians would find him and everything would be jeopardised for them. It was hard enough for Jack to visit as frequently as he did, Pitch was constantly and consistently amazed every time Jack showed up without warning (there was never any warning) and crashed into his life and lair, only to disappear like the gusts of wind he travelled on after only a bare few moments.

 

But sometimes, precious, rare times, Jack stayed with him, sprawled out beside him or half on top of him, totally peaceful and sleepy, content to do nothing. Pitch knew just how rare that was for the frost spirit and he revelled a little in the fact that it was around him that Jack was able to relax so. He didn’t mind even if Jack wanted to sleep afterwards, but sometimes they stayed up and spoke. About anything and everything, although things related to the guardians were skirted around as swiftly as possible. Pitch thought for a moment that that night would be one where Jack would sleep, as the boy’s eyelashes came to rest delicately on his cheek and his breathing slowed, but then words emerged from the pale mouth.

 

“I don’t know how long I can stay for…” came the quiet voice, and Pitch sighed. “I mean…I can stay for the night maybe…” a pause, “…maybe a little less. I promised Jamie I’d visit, and I can’t…you know, can’t tell him where I’ve been so-” there was a pause, and Pitch dared to look down at Jack, only to see tears crystallising on his lashes. Pitch sighed, but didn’t move to comfort him.

 

“Jack, you know you can’t tell him, for your own sa-”

 

“I know.”

 

The words were short and clipped, and almost shut Pitch up. But he felt like although Jack said it, he didn’t _really_ know in the way that meant he’d accepted it; “Jack, I’m the _Nightmare King_. A lack of power does not change the fact that I am fundamentally opposed to them, and wish to destroy them. That’s the way it’s always been, it’s what I am.” _Please understand_ , Pitch pleaded in his mind. Jack stilled for a moment, before,

 

“Were you ever anything before?” Jack asked, his tone slow and sleepy and he curled up closer to Pitch. He had nothing but a blanket acting as coverage, the item tossed carelessly over his hips to keep him decent. Pitch pulled the blanket up absently; tucking it around Jack like one might a child, even though the act was fussy and likely counter–productive, as Jack would not appreciate the heat. Jack didn’t seem to mind however, and curling fronds of ice spread to decorate the slip of fabric, and he let out a happy sigh as his eyes drifted closed. He was not asleep, Pitch confirmed, just sated. Pitch’s lips twitched up at the thought, before he pondered upon Jack’s question. It was an unexpected and off question, nothing he had expected. Certainly it was nothing like the topics that had come up before.

 

“Before what?” he asked softly, allowing his hands to trace across Jack’s forehead, around the shell of his ear and finally spreading into his hair, inducing a low sound not incomparable to purring from Jack.

 

“Before you were the King of Nightmares,” the Guardian mumbled. “Tooth said…when we spoke about teeth…that we were all something before we became Guardians. I know it’s sort of different for you, since you’re not a Guardian exactly, but I just wondered.”

 

It made Pitch pause, actually. It wasn’t something he’d ever given thought to. He surely had a beginning, somewhere far back, but the further he looked the less clear it became, until all that lay before his eyes was a mass of writhing black that made him feel like he was being pulled apart from the inside, his stomach lurching sickeningly until he retreated back from in, rooting himself firmly in the present. He knew that memories faded the older you grew, and he was certainly older than most. But this felt different to a simple faintness of memory, more than just forgetfulness.

 

Going back that far felt like losing himself altogether.

 

“I…don’t know. I’m not sure I was anything before,” Pitch told him, not entirely honestly. “Fear has always been in this world. And I too have always been in this world, from the very beginning.”

 

_But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t somewhere before this world, doesn’t mean I didn’t sail across the skies, didn’t ride in a dark galleon chasing the moon across the sky –_

 

It was so long ago. And he couldn’t really call it memories. When he described it as a jumble he really did mean just that; this wasn’t minor confusion or disorientation, this was true disconnection from his own self, as though his mind was a thousand fragmented pieces fighting and clawing at each other, with no sense of self or purpose greater than _blot it out, it’s too bright, blot it out make it go disappearswallowitwhole-_

 

Pitch shuddered, violently enough to disturb Jack, who cracked open an eye to send a concerned look in Pitch’s direction. The Nightmare King was breathing deeply, heavily, “Are you ok?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbows, both eyes now fully open and filled with concern. “Hey, you…you don’t have to answer if you don’t want, I…” Jack trailed off, looking upset. Pitch wanted to reassure him but honestly, didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t explain it, Jack wouldn’t understand. How could he? They’d already established his memories; Jack knew full well what he had been and what he was. Pitch doubted he had nearly as much knowledge of his own past as he did Jack’s.

 

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Pitch tried to reassure Jack, running a hand over his shoulders, his back, pulling him close. The blanket had fallen down again but Pitch was unconcerned by it now, only caring about pulling Jack close. “My past is one better left untouched,” he murmured quietly, fingers threaded greedily through white hair, “you needn’t concern yourself over it.”

 

Jack stirred restlessly in his arms for a moment more, before going still. Pitch breathed out softly, and allowed himself to relax back down. He hoped this would be the end of the matter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack makes many new discoveries that will determine the course of the story.

Jack awoke to the sensation of being warm. Once it had been a frightening experience, and a cause to head for one of the Poles as quickly as he could in order to bury himself in the ice and snow. Now it just meant he’d had the time to visit Pitch, enough time to be able to stay with him, to sleep and wake with him like a couple. A _normal_ couple. Jack’s expression faltered a little and he stirred. Hands were immediately on him, and he felt Pitch’s mouth at his neck. It was no more than a brush of lips, no biting or sensation of a tongue running across the pale flesh, but Jack still felt like Pitch might devour him at any moment. Or, perhaps, sink right into his skin until there was only one being left, impossible to become any closer than they had already become.

 

He shivered, and shifted under Pitch’s touch. “I need to go,” he said quietly, pulling out and apart from Pitch, the sheet that had previously been over him falling away. “It’s been a while since I’ve visited Jamie…it’s too warm for a snow day, but I still promised to come by once in a while.” He gathered his clothes from where they’d been discarded at various points during the night, turning back to look at Pitch before he put them on. Pitch was propped up on his elbows, almost in a reclining position. He hadn’t bothered to cover himself any more than the blankets already offered, and had materialised no new clothing. Jack was never quite sure where the clothing disappeared or reappeared from. Pitch had muttered something vague about shadows when Jack had asked, but the spirit was doubtful.

 

Pitch wasn’t saying anything, which made Jack sigh; and once he’d pulled his trousers back on, he crawled onto the bed, pressing his forehead against Pitch’s and closing his eyes. Pitch’s expression was accepting – no, it wasn’t at all. That was totally the wrong word. Resigned was right. Jack’s heart felt heavy with guilt, and his fingers clenched a bit too tightly into Pitch’s hair.

 

“I will come back,” he promised, both Pitch and himself. Getting no reply, he eventually took off, navigating the mind-tricking maze that served as home for Pitch. If each of the homes of the Guardians reflected their centre, then Pitch’s certainly did the same. Just when you thought you were secure, the floor would open up under your feet and leave you gasping for breath and struggling to calm the pounding of your heart. But a physical maze could be learnt. Even though Jack was fairly certain Pitch had found ways to alter the layout of his Lair every so often, throwing Jack for the occasional look with his visited, it was nothing compared to the ever-shifting turmoil of Pitch’s mind.

 

Every so often, nightmares would appear out of the shadows and dance alongside Jack as he flew through the caverns of Pitch’s home. Every time filled Jack with a kind of fearful thrill; the memory of how they’d dragged Pitch away fresh in his mind every time. That was probably how they liked it, however. Today was once such time, and Jack felt the familiar spike of fear that served as his first warning to their presence. He didn’t have the patience to deal with them this time, and accelerated with a sudden burst of energy, leaving ice-slick walls behind him as his powers discharged in the process, creating a winter wonderland in his wake. He wondered how Pitch would react to finding it later.

 

Eventually, he located the tunnel that led out of Pitch’s Lair, and a burst of energy propelled him through it and out of the hole in the ground that had once, a long time ago, been covered by a bed. But rather than head towards Burgess, as he had told Pitch he would, Jack quietly and guiltily coaxed the wind into a different direction. He hadn’t lied to Pitch. Not…intentionally. He’d intended to visit Jamie, still did, but the conversation of the night before echoed around his head, and refused to let him be. The idea of Pitch’s past, of there being a _before_ , had tangled around his fingers, and refused to unwind itself until Jack gripped it tightly, and followed it through.

 

But who to go to for answers?

 

Tooth seemed the obvious option. Her centre was memories, and that was what Jack needed access to. He wondered absently what had happened to the tooth what had been knocked painfully from Pitch’s mouth the day the Guardians had defeated him. The last Jack had seen of it was a dirty white, misshapen lump skittering across the surface of his lake to be, ironically, forgotten about. He hadn’t seen any sign of it since. Jack thought harder, hand clenching around his staff as he tried to focus. Who was most likely to know? Pitch claimed to predate the Earth. Sandy, Jack thought suddenly, was the most likely to know something, anything. He used the same sand techniques as Pitch, albeit for radically different purposes.

 

Jack paused a moment in the air, gazing out across the horizon as the wind gently buoyed him in place, rustling deliciously cool air over his body. Talking to Sandy meant, of course, finding Sandy in the first place. He may be the most likely to know, but he was also in no particular order: the hardest to find, the busiest, and the most difficult to understand of the guardians. Patience was not a strong skill of Jack’s, and every single problem talking to Sandy posed required copious amounts of it.

 

That only left North and Bunny. Jack honestly didn’t know who between them was the more likely to say anything. Despite his indecisiveness, the wind picked up beneath his feet, and he felt himself being guided in a very definite direction. Jack blinked in surprise at the choice the wind appeared to be making for him, but in the end gave a grin, throwing himself into the flight whole-heartedly, and not stopping until the landscape around him had changed.

 

Finding the Warren was never an easy task, but Bunny had shown him a few of the entrances the googies used, and Jack had discovered to his great delight (and Bunny’s sometimes horror) that the openings were big enough for him to wriggle his way through.

 

If Jack had picked up such a habit of invading the Warren right from the start, he could only imagine the friction it would have caused between himself and the kangaroo. Despite the forgiveness for what Jack had done that Easter long ago, and they had worked well together against Pitch afterwards, it had not been a real fix between them. A start, yes, and a good start at that. But it was not enough. Not when after the thrill of the battle was over, and Jack’s Guardianship had been made official, Bunny had returned to the Warren; returned to the shattered remains of his Warren.

 

Jack used the word ‘return’ like getting back to the Warren had been easy in the first place. During their rampage through the home of hope, the Nightmares had wrecked every tunnel they’d passed through, collapsing most of them, and even those that hadn’t collapsed had been wrecks. It had taken Bunny months to get them back into working order, refusing to interact with anyone for the entire time. Jack had almost attempted to offer help, North’s large hand on his shoulder the only thing that had stopped him from what he could see now as being a terrible mistake.

 

But that time had passed, the tunnels were fully restored and several successful Easters had passed. Jack turned up in the Warren for every single one, to help decorate eggs. Bunny never asked why he had come, but he never told him to leave. And there was always paint and brushes set to the side. Jack wondered, perhaps, if Bunny understood the guilt that Jack still couldn’t shift. It created a horrible parallel to his time with Pitch. Jack stayed well away from Pitch and his Lair every Easter. Guilt may wrack him for not being able to save Easter, but it also wracked him because it was the time he hadn’t stopped Pitch being dragged away by his nightmares. Jack hadn’t known it was possible to feel two such opposite pulls, but it was apparently a fully possible feeling, and one of the most agonising, emotionally, that he’d ever had the misfortune to experience.

 

 _Thank the Moon it wasn’t Easter anytime soon,_ Jack thought as he sped his way through the tunnels. Asking questions about Pitch was hard enough without disturbing those kinds of memories.

 

Emerging into the Warren was, as always, like entering a fairyland. A tad on the warm side for Jack, but so breathtakingly vibrant that he barely noticed, and often completely forgot about the temperature altogether. The wind was respectful on this place, and Jack found that he was too. It was on gentle breezes that he flew through the Warren, weaving his way through the plants and boulders almost lazily as he looked down at the scattering of googies around. It wasn’t long before he found Bunny, hunched down near one of the colourful rivers, surrounded by the little eggs, deeply invested in painting delicate designs onto them. His ears twitches as Jack approached however, and he glanced over with a half-wave before returning to his painting.

 

Jack flew down to land nearby, careful not to hit any googies with staff or feet. “Want any help with those?” he offered after watching Bunny for a few minutes more, and Bunny gave a deep chuckle.

 

“Nah, you’re all right. We’ve got plenty of time yet for these little guys,” Bunny told him, regarding the googies with a fond gaze. He turned his eyes over to Jack however, a focused gazed rather than the quick glance he’d spared before, and something in Jack’s gaze must have given him a clue as to what was going on in his head. “Come on mate, spill,” Bunny said easily, settling back down to his work, although his ears tilted towards Jack. “I don’t need help painting, but the company is welcome.”

 

Jack smiled faintly, slipping down until he sat parallel to Bunny, enjoying the way the unpainted googies waddled towards him, one or two toppling over as they went too fast for their little legs to handle. Jack lifted one of them into his hands, watching it totter about. Stalling having to speak.

 

“Umm. I just wondered if we could…talk about…Pitch?” he eventually came out with, and winced as Bunny froze up, taking several moments to visibly relax himself and return to the painting, which was still more strained than the easy brushstrokes he’d had before. Jack suddenly realised he was squeezing the googie in his hands far too tightly as he tried to gauge Bunny’s reaction.

 

“It’s just…I was wondering,” Jack began, trying to relax his grip on the googie, which was flailing its legs at him frantically, “about P-Pitch’s past. Tooth said to me that we were all something before we were chosen, right? Like when I got my memories back. I just wondered if Pitch was the same. If he was anything before he was the Nightmare King?” Jack couldn’t bring himself to look at Bunny, his heart thumping in his chest painfully. Guilt was surely written all over his face.

 

Bunny was silent for a long while, and the wrecking beat of Jack’s heart didn’t ease in the slightest. It only worsened as Bunny finally spoken, and Jack nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden noise in the silence.

 

“I know…bits,” Bunny admitted slowly, cagily, before he stilled, and glanced over to where Jack was lounging with the googies, a wary look in his eyes, “…why? What’s got you so interested?”

 

Jack’s head jerked towards him, the epitome of a guilty party. “No reason?” he tried, wincing as his voice grated. “I just, uhh…well, what with finding my memories, and talking to you guys about your pasts, I just – I just wondered…”

 

“You got your teeth back _years_ ago,” Bunny interrupted. “Nah…nah that ain’t right,” Bunny said slowly, eyes narrowed as he advanced on Jack, clearly puzzling it over in his head and not resting without an answer. Jack wanted to leap backwards onto the wind as Bunny came forward, but something – _guilt – panic – surprise –_ made him stay were he was, eyes wide. “If you were interested in where Pitch came from, you’d have asked a long time ago,” Bunny peered at Jack suspiciously. It wasn’t malicious, Bunny hadn’t guess, couldn’t have guessed, but it wasn’t innocent confusion over Jack’s question in those eyes.

 

“No, that’s not – there’s no reason, really, I just…” Jack was flustered, creeping cold and hot spreading over his cheeks as frosty tendrils chased after blush.

 

“Why now? Why are you asking about Pitch now of all times?” Bunny’s eyes widened, and he took a step back, “mate, have you seen him? Crikey, if you have, we need to tell North, summon the Guardians and – ”

 

“No!” Jack burst out, leaping into the air to press his hands into the fur on Bunny’s cheeks. He’d seen North do it before, and a faint breeze of relief ruffled through him when he saw Bunny’s face go slack, eyes wide at the sensation of someone touching his face. “It’s…it’s nothing, Bunny. If you don’t want to share, you just had to say so,” Jack told him, drawing his hands away slowly. Swiping up his staff from the ground, he launched himself into the air without a backwards glance. Bunny may have shouted something after him, Jack couldn’t be sure. The wind was rushing past him, howling in his ears until he couldn’t be sure of anything he heard. Just the way he liked it.

 

It had been a mistake, he decided upon exiting the Warren, to try and ask Bunny. Of course he’d get suspicious, he was the most wary of the Guardians by nature. It left him, of course with only one option on who to ask about Pitch’s past. Jack didn’t know much North would be able to help, Jack thought as he sped his way towards the Pole, but unless he crashed into Sandy along the way, and mysteriously gained the ability to understand his way of speech, there were few other options to be had.

 

Upon arriving at the Pole, Jack was glad of his choice. Even if North didn’t answer him, or didn’t know the answer at all, he liked the workshop. It was a place where toys were made for children to have fun with; it was logical that he would be drawn to it. Besides, North had been the first of the Guardians to truly accept and reach out to him. Sandy had been his friend, sure, but that was different. More distant; Sandy was, after all, nice to everyone. North had been unapologetically warm and open, even after Jack’s attempts to rebuff him. Landing himself on an open window near the top of the building, Jack gazed down into the Workshop, Globe before him and yeti bustling all around and tripping over the elves.

 

And of course, right in the middle of it all, overseeing the workforce, was North.

 

“Jack!” came the old man’s greeting as soon as he spotted the younger spirit hovering by the window. “Come in, come in. I will take break.” He conversed with the two yetis beside him as Jack floated down to the workshop floor, turning to walk with Jack as he finished instructing them. “What has you looking so down in dumps?” North asked, after peering closely into Jack’s face, still apparently showing his worry after the failed discussion with Bunny. He debated momentarily making up some excuse, however with North, considering his uncanny ability to wrangle the truth out one way or another, Jack decided the direct approach would likely be best.

 

“I tried to ask Bunny about Pitch’s past,” Jack admitted, and North’s face creased immediately into a frown. “I just want to know!” Jack cried, clutching his staff tightly. “You guys have fought him loads of times in the past, I’d never even spoken to the guy before the Tooth Palace.  You all know so much more about him, and I just…I wanted to know where he came from. If you’d know where he’d came from. Why he is the way he is.” _Is._ Present tense. Jack froze at his slip up, but North barely seemed to notice it. His frown had deepened, but he was far more contemplative now.

 

“It was not being good idea to ask Bunny,” North said finally, crossing his heavy arms across his chest.

 

“Yeah, I get that now,” Jack muttered, eyes flickering down to the floor. North sighed, unfolding his arms to place one hand on Jack’s back, guiding him through the Workshop, down the corridors until they reached North’s office workspace.

 

“You must understand, Jack,” North began, closing the door behind them and turning to face Jack sternly, “we faced Pitch a great many times back when he was at the height of his power. It is not – “ North paused, sucked in a deep breath, and sighed. Jack leant forward, willing North to continue.

 

“It’s not…? Not what?” he prompted, tantalised by the promise of information right at his fingertips, frustratingly withheld.

 

 “Jack. Let me tell you a fairytale story?” North said instead, fixing Jack with a contemplative look.

 

Jack’s mouth fell open slightly, his brow crinkling. A fairytale? But he wanted to know about Pitch! “North, is it really – ”

 

“Please, Jack,” North said quietly, turning serious blue eyes on the younger spirit, “This fairytale is of great importance. Now, let’s see…I shall try to tell it to you just as it was told to me, yes?” North settled himself and Jack did the same, hunching over in his position.

 

“Once upon a time, long before the earth and the moon, there existed the Constellations. Beautiful, shining kingdoms that existed stretched across the skies. Each was ruled by a Tsar and Tsarina, and there was peace and happiness and good dreams. It was called, in all its glory and perfection, the Golden Age.”

 

Jack’s eyes narrowed towards North. There was something about his expression, the tone of his voice that was both wistful and mournful. Jack kept his lips firmly closed, slowly beginning to sense the unexpected gravity to the tale.

 

“There was only one thing that threatened the Golden Age,” North continued, “and that was the darkness. The living shadows of Fearlings and Nightmare Men, dream pirates who sought to spread nightmares and darkness amongst the hearts of all living beings.

 

“Luckily, there existed an army of golden warriors, led by…by a fierce, mighty General. This General led the Constellations in war against the shadows, and _won._ But…” grief passed across North’s face, and Jack leant in closer, “…you see, the shadows could not be destroyed, Jack. They could only be trapped. And so trap them the General did. But not only did he trap them…he volunteered as the prison’s guard, to keep them in their prison until the end of time.

 

“It was an agonising task that he had set himself. A lifetime, with nothing but fearlings for company. You and I can’t comprehend, Jack, what such a fate would be like. All that the General had to keep himself – to keep himself _sane,_ was a single locket. A single locket, and the picture and memories it contained. He had a daughter, and it was his daughter alone that kept him fighting. Until…” North took a deep breath, “until the fearling learned to use it against him.”

 

Jack’s blood ran suddenly cold in his veins, colder, too cold; the kind that didn’t come from temperature but rather from horror and foreboding. “What did they do?” he asked, and his voice was barely a whisper. He hadn’t even realised how far into the story North had drawn him without him realising it at all.

 

“They used her voice. They tricked the General into believing that, within their prison, they had his daughter, and were torturing here. They used her screams, her pleas against him. And so, he opened the door. The fearlings rushed out and rushed straight into him.”

 

Jack felt numb.

 

“That General’s name was Kozmotis Pitchiner,” North told him, voice heavy, “but after the fearlings took him, they changed him, transformed him into what you know as Pitch Black.”

 

“Pitch was…a hero?” Jack tested the words in his mouth. They felt heavy, wrong. Pitch wasn’t…Jack cared about Pitch a great deal, loved him even, but he wasn’t a hero. He was the _Nightmare King_. The one who tried to destroy the Guardians, the one who was against everything the Man in the Moon stood for, he couldn’t…how could he have ever been…

 

“Bunny was there, you know,” North confided quietly, and Jack’s eyes widened in shock, as he was jolted out of his racing thoughts.

 

“He was…but _how_?” Jack asked, stunned. Bunny couldn’t be that old, could he? Although…that would explain how grumpy he was…

 

The thought was immature, and cut off quickly as North’s expression, so atypical for the jovial guardian that it made even Jack sit up to listen closely to what he had to say, darkened. “An old friend, and an old guardian, took a liking to travelling through time using a magical device. He met Bunny several times on his trips,” North chuckled, “Although Bunny has never in fact told us quite how he travels time, and has never revealed any device he may use to do so. Secretive rabbit man,” this last part was muttered under North’s breath, “but one of the trips my old friend met Bunny on, was one to when Pitch was first…‘born’, shall we say. The exact moment the fearlings tricked him, and Kozmotis was lost to the shadows.”

 

“But Pitch was – before everything, he was a _hero_ ,” Jack breathed out in wonder, and North nodded, sadly.

 

“Yes, he was. And that is, perhaps why it is so hard for Bunny to talk about it. To see the fall of one so brave, so strong, from the mightiest hero of the Golden Age to the King of Nightmares…it is hard. It is near unconceivable. Indeed, to those who do not understand the love a parent possesses for a child…” North broke off, staring into the distance. Jack watched his expression, wondering what was passing through his mind.

 

“When I was a young man I did not understand the tale,” North said softly, “I did not understand until I met Katherine and the other Guardians what it was to love someone so much that you would lose everything for them. But then, on top of that, I had to learn that Pitch truly did lose _everything_. He is not Kozmotis any longer,” North said firmly, settling his hands firmly on Jack’s shoulders, “maybe a long time ago there was still something of Kozmotis in him, but now?” North shook his head, “nyet. I have seen that man do too many evil things, things that if there were even a smidge of the General left, he would fight far harder to stop from happening.”

 

‘ _But – ‘_ Jack wanted to begin, but he reigned himself in, instead trying to minimalise his smiling, aiming it down at the floor. “Yeah. I get it. I guess I just wished that we wouldn’t always have to be fighting him.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry,” North said, his jovial tones returning as he assumed Jack had dismissed the matter from his mind. “He may be back, some day, but for meantime, I do not think we need worry about Pitch.” He clapped Jack heartily on the back, before leaving the office to return to work.

 

“No,” Jack said to the empty room, unable to control his grin now he was alone, “we don’t need to worry about him at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop me a comment. ^^


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch sees Jack again sooner than expected, and discovers the fragility of his own mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dub con at the end of this chapter, as an early warning.

**Chapter 3**

 

Pitch had been lounging atop one of the hanging cages in his lair in Jack’s absence. It wasn’t a particularly typical spot for him, but he was enjoying the height; the plummeting drop from the cages down to the stone floor so far below ( _and so conspicuously bare of tooth boxes_.) Pitch cursed, moving through the shadows to reappear back on solid ground, stalking angrily away. It had been a long while. The Nightmares were no longer attempting to _eat_ him – he sent venomous glares at those who dared to come to close as he passed in any case, sending them skittering back, and he…he had Jack. Pitch stopped in his footsteps, and pressed a grey hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. He had Jack; he had to remember that. Attempting to pretend he wasn’t rattled, he faded away once again to resume his position on the cages, steadfastly refusing to look at the ground this time.

 

Jack’s exit earlier had…rattled him, he supposed. Too sudden, too uncomfortable. And perhaps that was his fault, but Jack was hardly being fair. He had the freedom to go wherever he wanted whenever he pleased. He wasn’t Earth-bound or in hiding like Pitch was. He had no real incentive to stay with Pitch, and many days Pitch just wondered and waited for the time when Jack would realise that, and stop coming back altogether. This was, it seemed, one of those days. Pitch returned to the room where he had gathered bedding for Jack and himself. There were many beds in his Lair, yes, but Jack had laughingly tested each of them out in a single afternoon and deemed them all “way too creepy and why would I want to be up here when I know you’re going to be down there? And don’t even think about asking me to go down there with you Pitch, it’s way too hot and stuff and cramped and _no._ ”

 

And so the pile of mattresses, blankets and loose pillows had accumulated. A bed that Pitch couldn’t go underneath, and which satisfied Jack’s absurd need for excessive pillows and snuggling. …Pitch wouldn’t admit that this bed was his favourite in the lair, and that he was steadily growing less and less opposed to the “snuggling” aspect of Jack’s affection as time continued to pass. He collapsed down into the soft bedding, feeling childlike as he did so, face buried in the plush pillows. _He wanted Jack to be here._

 

Of course, when he said he wanted Jack to be here, he actually meant Jack under very specific circumstances, he mused, wandering his way back to the cages. He meant a Jack who loved him, he meant a Jack who knew better than to talk about the Guardians, and generally speaking he meant a Jack who was able to sense when Pitch wanted nothing more than to curl up around him somewhere in the dark and just hold him quietly, and would let him. So the sudden arrival of icy blasts of cold air, carrying with them the sound of laughter and boundless energy, despite announcing Jack’s sooner than excepted arrival did far less than it should have done to ease Pitch’s mind.

 

He stood on top of the cage, facing directly into the wind, waiting for the tell tale blur of blue and white as the arriving spirit was thrown about on the currents, every time looking as though he would break with the slightest movement.

 

Jack clearly saw Pitch as soon as he entered, that tiny fragile slip of a boy being tossed by the winds, because suddenly he was aiming himself at Pitch, colliding into the Bogeyman with enough force to knock him down from the top of the cage and into the air with him before Pitch could utter a single word.

 

Within seconds the shadows had enveloped them completely mid-air, and the reappeared firmly standing on the ground. Pitch took a moment to compose himself, wishing now that he’d remained on the ground when he’d had the chance, before directing his attention to the spirit attached tightly around his middle, clinging to him tightly, cool face buried against his robe like he never wanted to leave. There was a pounding beginning in his head, set off by Jack’s overly dramatic entrance, but even so his face soften. Carding his finger through Jack’s hair and breathing in his presence softly, Pitch spoke.

 

“Jack. Why are you here?”

 

The frost spirit peeled himself away from Pitch, who relocated his hands to Jack’s shoulders. Jack was beaming up at him with levels of happiness Pitch had never before seen any possess whilst in his presence before.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jack gasped out, although the giddy happiness didn’t fade from his face. The excitement. “I just…I had to know. Had to be sure, and it turned out to be so amazing, I never expected it, it’s the last thing in the world anyone would expect – “

 

“What is wrong with you?” Pitch eventually demanded in tired confusion, “Why on earth are you acting so – “ _excitable, happy, delirious, ridiculous –_ there were a thousand words for what Jack was being, and none of them were flattering. As Jack continued to speak Pitch found his patience wear thinner and thinner, until it was on the brink of snapping. He didn’t want to snap in front of Jack, not again, but if the boy pushed him too far…Pitch rarely felt like he wished to sleep, but now was proving to be one of those rare times.  Jack wasn’t doing it right, wasn’t following their usual pattern… There was pounding in Pitch’s head, incessant and writhing and he wasn’t even quite sure it made sense. And Jack just continued on regardless, with his bright eyes and his overbearing happiness, which for the first time in years, Pitch couldn’t stand the sight of.

 

“Because I _know_ , Pitch,” the words sped out of Jack’s mouth in a dizzy, happy flurry, “I know about Kozmotis Pitchiner!”

 

The pounding in Pitch’s mind, with those two words, turned to a screaming and reached a crescendo.

 

 

_Koz…_

_Motis…_

_Koz – … – iner_

_General…_

_The General…_

_THEGENERALTHEJAILORKOZMOTISPITCHINERJAILORCAPTORHATEDKOZMOTISTRAPPEDUSTRAPPEDHIMLAUGHRAGETRAPPEDGENERALGOLDENGENERALKOZM O T I S –_

 

Pitch dragged in a lungful of air, and it sounded like a man who was drowning. Ignorant to his plight, Jack was talking.

 

He was still talking, talking with that _moon-damned_ smile on his face, like he couldn’t hear the splitting screams in Pitch’s mind, like Pitch wasn’t breaking down in front of him, victim to a thousand voices pulling him in every direction.

 

“So you used to be good! So – so like you could still make things up with the Guardians, this can still work, North told me so much about you, about Kozmotis, and I – “

 

“ _Shut. Up._ ”

 

The words came out in a low, long hiss, and sent a rippling chill through the air, the skitter of black sand in his words, the low threat of shifting hooves and sentient darkness. Jack fell silent immediately, taking a step backwards from Pitch. Scared. He was scared of Pitch.

 

 _He should be scared_.

 

Pitch didn’t want him to be scared. He wanted Jack silent, he wanted Jack to forget everything he’d learnt, wanted him to bury that part of his mind away in the darkness, wanted him to want Pitch, to be with Pitch and nothing else, nothing else just Pitch no Guardians no pasts don’tneedmemoriesdon’tneedKozmotisedon’tneedOverland _don’tneedanyofitwhyJackwhywhy w h y –_

 

“Where – _where did you hear that name_?” Pitch asked, except it was barely his voice; it was a voice frayed at the edges, fraying into a thousand threads of anger and rage and all things dark with the world. Jack faltered at the sound of it. He was looking into Pitch’s eyes, at his face, and Pitch tasted genuine, uncontrolled fear flowing from Jack, and oh how he wanted to feast on and obliterate the fear from Jack. Wanted to obliterate all the things hurting Jack; even if Jack didn’t realise yet how badly they’d end up hurting him.

 

“I just…I asked North,” Jack admitted, shifting back subconsciously from the dark figure Pitch made, his surrounding plunging slowly into darkness. “You wouldn’t tell me! And I thought – maybe you didn’t know at all. I just wanted to understand Pitch, to see! And I do, I get it now, I – “ Black sand shrieked as it swirled in vicious torrents over their heads, around Jack’s body, and the boy flinched horribly as though shocked by an electric current. “…Pitch?” he asked, and his voice was so small, so fearful…

 

Pitch didn’t care.

 

“Why?!” Pitch asked, and couldn’t even bring himself to react to Jack’s further flinch at his tone and volume, blue eyes unable to stray from the sand around them. “Why couldn’t you just leave that alone? Did it not occur to you that maybe, just _maybe_ I didn’t _want_ to know what I was before?! That I didn’t want to know about this- this _General_? Some hero that was corrupted and destroyed from the inside out until he became _me?!_ ”

 

He should stop this; he needed to stop speaking. He needed to stop. Right. Now.

 

But he couldn’t.

 

_Wouldn’t._

 

He was angry, and he hadn’t wanted to know, he really truly had not wanted to know his past but here Jack was, digging it all up and asking the _Guardians_ of all people to tell him about it. Pitch moved forward, looming over Jack and causing fear to spark in the frost spirit’s eyes in a way he hadn’t done since they had first met. The sand continued to move, Pitch’s fingers dragging through it as he moved forward.

 

“You should realise, Frost, that just because you were so desperate to dig up your past, it doesn’t mean that everyone else wishes the same,” he said coldly, and didn’t react to the jerk in Jack’s small frame.

 

“Pitch, I’m sorry, I just thought…I thought…” Jack began, before trailing off miserably, clutching his staff with white-knuckled fingers, curling in on himself. _But he hadn’t thought, had he,_ Pitch’s mind hissed, descending into the many shivery, slick voices it sometimes did, clouding Pitch’s mind and making it impossible to see straight. He could barely even look at Jack as it was, so betrayed he felt by the boy’s actions.

 

“Get out of here.”

 

Pitch’s voice was so quite at first that Jack couldn’t hear him, taking a step forward, face raised as he paused, ready to ask Pitch what he had said-

 

“I said _get out_!!” Pitch screamed at him, and Jack didn’t waste time, up in the air and shooting through the Lair as fast as he could go, leaving an icy trail behind him in his panicked haste. Any other time during their affair, the look on Jack’s face would have been cause to scoop the boy up, to distract him from his troubles and perhaps even hunt down whatever had caused the expression in the first place. Pitch felt no such caring feelings now.

 

Jack shouldn’t have gone prying, how _dare_ he? Pitch had asked him not to, told him not to, and he had done so anyway. Pitch’s desperate desire for companionship and for Jack was so drowned out at that moment, he couldn’t even regret sending Jack away, his only thoughts on his anger. It was as though his mind was rebelling against everything Jack had said; Pitch didn’t want to hear it, but not simply because he was happier in ignorance, but because there was something deep inside him, pressing against it, hating it, loathing it until Pitch was blind to everything else. He wanted to supress it, to shove it away like it was a physical thing he could wipe off the earth and never be bothered by again.

 

But it was as though, simply by speaking the name Kozmotis Pitchiner, Jack had unlocked something deep with Pitch’s body. Or, perhaps, awakened it. There was a rush within him, a sudden bout of adrenaline that left Pitch gasping and leaning against the wall, each ragged breath welling up stronger than before, as though each had some unique purpose of its own, straining and pushing to escape.

 

Kozmotis.

 

Kozmotis Pitchiner.

 

_Kozmotispitchinergeneralpitchinerheroofthegoldenarmyheroprotectorjailorprisonerherowarriorprisonerfatherfatherfather-_

 

The next breath outwards turned into a screaming cry, and Pitch fell to the ground, clutching his head and rocking. It felt like his skull was going to split. He wished Jack had stayed. He hoped Jack would never come back for as long as they both existed. Every thought was a contradiction, a ripping of his mind in opposite directions. The sand around him reflected it, the Nightmares too gathering in the chamber with him, tossing their heads in agitation and letting out long shrieking sounds to the sky. It took a long time before Pitch was able to claw back his thoughts, to lower the screaming both within and outside of his mind, until finally the nightmares disbanded, wandering back to their areas of the Lair.

 

With his head clear again, and the anger receding, his thoughts from before Jack’s disastrous visit returned. He did still want Jack, of course he did. He didn’t regret getting angry at Jack, Jack had after all been wrong to push the matter even when Pitch had told him not to…but that didn’t change his stronger feelings. The feeling he had which stretched back years and would stretch ahead for many more. He wanted and needed Jack, and he didn’t want to have to wait for Jack to come back by himself. Who knew if he even would come back, after that? Pitch began pacing, trying to decide upon a course of action.

 

He couldn’t wait. It was too risky. To even contemplate a course of action that might result in Jack leaving him forever…he simply couldn’t do it. This would be his first time leaving the Lair since his defeat, he pondered as he rose slowly ( _cautiously_ ) towards the tunnel leading to the outside world.  It was for Jack. It was worth it.

 

Even with that in mind, it felt so wrong, as soon as he emerged from the hole and into the night. Fresh air ghosted past his skin, the first natural breeze he’d felt for years. The feeling, the knowingness of the nearby children, soundly asleep hit Pitch harder than he had expected. It had been so long, he’d forgotten just what it felt like. There were bound to be children having nightmares. Bound to be those who couldn’t rest easy, from whom he could coax the most wonderful new nightmares out of golden sand. It took Pitch a moment to clear his mind from the glaze of longing, of his desire to feed. Focus. He needed to focus on Jack. He needed Jack, he couldn’t be without him. No matter what Jack had done, no matter what he brought up, Pitch was certain. After all this time he knew for sure, Jack was the one thing he couldn’t live without.

 

The sky was, thankfully, overcast with clouds. Pitch had a feeling his old friend still knew he was outside his cave, outside his _cage_ , but he acknowledged that he and the Tsar did have a certain level of…agreement. The Man in the Moon only pushed back if Pitch pushed first. He tolerated Pitch’s existence as Pitch tolerated (barely) his presence in the sky. Pitch moved forward, sinking down into the ground, entering a shadowy insubstantial form that he could have described to others if he tried. Jack had asked, having seem him sink in and out of the darkness; not through the walls but directly into the shadows, becoming one with them and moving at his will. Pitch hadn’t been able to make Jack understand. It was simply easy for him, a part of what he was. Useful, too, for finding someone quickly.

 

And so Pitch found himself in perhaps the most obvious place. Jack was dancing across the surface of his lake, the site of his deathbed, gliding in lazy circles over the water. Ice formed beneath his feet with every step he took, and fades as his feet moved on. Pitch thought that Jack was unlikely to call his winding movements a dance; his hands shoved in his pocked, head ducked down morosely, following a pattern he could only feel, not see. Yes to Pitch it looked dazzling. Moving to the edge of the lake, Pitch allowed himself to regain physical form. Jack was turned away from him, and even Pitch couldn’t resist that invitation.

 

“Jack,” he called out, a low, soft croon that made its way through the cool air, stopping Jack in his tracks.  He visibly shuddered, and the ice beneath his feet slowly started to stretch out, his powers spilling out into the water surrounding him as he tried to control his emotions. “Jack, face me,” Pitch continued, taking a silent step closer to the shore.

 

“Why?” Jack responded with a question, and his voice sounded like he was fighting tears. “All I’m gonna do is say something that’ll make you _scream_ again, aren’t I? Poke around where I’m not welcome, make a mess wherever I go?”

 

Pitch stayed silent. Jack had never quite forgiven him for that particular observation. Likely because he so feared it to be true; to be an intrinsic part of his personality. Pitch could feel the fear rolling off Jack, more than his anger and sadness, and he soaked it in greedily. He could, he though, live off Jack’s fears alone forever. The ice had spread almost to the bank, and Pitch stepped onto it gently, making his way to where Jack still stood. Slowly, carefully, as though confronting a wild animal, Pitch pressed his hands to Jack’s back. He stilled them as Jack jumped beneath his touch, the spike of fear tangy and sweet. Moving slowly, Pitch ran his hands down Jack’s back – back up, across and down his arms, until eventually he wrapped them around Jack’s waist, moving careful circles across his hoody-covered stomach.

 

Jack let out a long, shuddering breath, sagging into the touch.

 

“…Isn’t it dangerous for you to be out here…?” Jack asked quietly, and Pitch knew with that question that he’d won. Jack would come back with him now, would accept the unspoken apology and offer one up himself in return.

 

“Of course. Who knows when the clouds might part and the moon will see us here,” Pitch mused half-truthfully, and he felt Jack tensing again beneath him, something he soothed over with the rhythmic movement of fingers and low shushing sounds. “The only way to stop this from having been a pointless risk on my part would be for you to come back with me to the Lair,” he continued, and although his tone was light and careless, they could both feel the seriousness behind it. Jack forced himself to relax back into Pitch’s arms, and Pitch already knew the answer he’d give.

 

“I’ll come.”

 

Within seconds Pitch had them wrapped in shadows, and then back deep underground, tumbling through the layers and parts of his Lair. “I just…” Jack began as the rematerialized, “I just wanted to know. I didn’t want to hurt you or upset you, I just – “

 

His lips found Jack’s quickly, and the boy was so _eager_ to respond, so eager to make sure Pitch had forgiven him, dropping his words readily. It wasn’t long before clothes were discarded and Pitch once again had his hands all over Jack, nails scraping across frost-covered skin.

 

Too late, Pitch realised it was different that night, to before, and Pitch understood suddenly that he still hadn’t quite forgiven Jack, no matter his words. But for all the boy’s insistence that he’d done no wrong by wanting to know or by asking, Jack didn’t complain when Pitch was just that shade rougher, or when Pitch pressed his fingertips into pale skin hard enough that the marks would last just that bit longer.

 

Against Pitch’s will, against every faint grip on sanity he had, the thought of how Kozmotis might have treated a lover welled up into Pitch’s mind. Was he a different man, away from the battlefields? Soft and gentle, tending always to his partner’s needs first? Or was his the General through and through, firm and controlling, but still so good all the way though, until he shined like Sandy did from the mind-numbing, ridiculous, self-important-self- _righteous-_

 

And Jack cried out beneath him, and Pitch realised that he was pressed heavily against Jack, deep into him in a way that couldn’t be comfortable for him. The boy had his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and he was shaking beneath Pitch’s bruising fingers. Pitch froze, before moving slowly, drawing back. His fingers left Jack’s skin, left behind deep, purpling marks blossoming to mark where touch had been. Jack moaned at the movement, and it wasn’t at all from pleasure. Pitch pulled out, slowly, ignoring the fact that neither of them were anywhere near to satisfaction.

 

Bringing himself off turned into a rough, crudely functional affair that only took a few short jerks. Jack was…far more difficult to handle. Pitch didn’t even know if he’d been able to get hard in the first place, and it filled him with the shaky sickness again. He ran his fingers lightly across Jack’s back, but pulled away as he felt Jack jerk painfully under his touch. There was silence between them, a chasm that Pitch could feel lurching wider with every moment that passed.

 

Maybe, he thought, this was it. Maybe this was where cold and dark came to an end, with Jack unable to even stand Pitch’s touch, with Pitch unable to touch Jack without thinking of stupid–fucking _–ruin–everything–_ Generals, and leaving behind welts and bruises before he felt enough like himself to even notice the damage he was causing.

 

“You can leave, if you want,” Pitch whispered, his voice too loud and too dry and shaking against the stillness of the caves, and the shake of Jack’s silent sobs. The sobs which hitched, as Pitch laid himself down, facing the ceiling ready to spend a sleepless night after Jack left. Only to hear Jack shifting, not to sit up, but to roll over onto his side and curl into Pitch’s body. Ice spread out from where Jack’s skin touched his, and Pitch wondered if this was the moment where Pitch would begin crying in Jack’s place.

 

Pitch’s eyes remained dry, and the grey skin beneath Jack’s face continued to collect crystallising moisture.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch makes a decision, for better and for worse.

**Chapter 4**

 

Pitch honestly didn’t know what to do the next morning.

 

He wished he slept, wished he could sink into oblivion and become dead to the world. Wished that Jack would wake before him, would slide away and disappear so that Pitch needn't confront him, needn't worry about what to say, what to do.

 

How to apologise for the night before.

 

He was scared of facing Jack, and it wasn't like him. Wasn't like _this_ him. The tangles of voices in his mind were unapologetic. Jack had pried, Jack had fled. He should be grateful Pitch had followed; should be _happy_ to accept punishment and pleasure entwined into one, and still come back for more. Pitch idly admired the tears that still balanced delicately as crystals on Jack's cheeks. He wanted them to remain always. To harden like diamonds, embedded deep into Jack's face, a mark left by Pitch and only by Pitch, a symbol of how Jack would always come back, no matter the price.

 

Until Pitch reached out, and in one fell swoop brushed away the lingering droplets, and stirred Jack awake.

 

Tension flooded immediately into Jack's frame. He barely had to wake for his body to instinctively react, to coil in fear and to try and escape from the cause of his pain. _Look at them both_ , Pitch thought darkly. _Both running scared from the bogeyman. Only difference is, Jack can actually escape._ Against his kinder judgement, he brushed his hand back against Jack's face. _So why on earth won't you escape?_

 

“Are you going to make me stay here?” where the first words out of Jack’s mouth, and didn’t that just speak volumes? Pitch ran his tongue over dry lips.

 

“Will you ever come back if I let you go?” was his answering question. He reached across, and grasped Jack’s wrists experimentally. Frost rolled up his fingers and hands like lace gloves, but Jack didn’t hurt him. Didn’t turn those lacy fronds into sharp daggers of ice, and pierce through Pitch’s skin.

 

“…I would,” came Jack’s voice, cracked like he was about to cry. Pitch let out the breath his didn’t realise he was holding, the warm air skittering across Jack’s back. His hands began to move more freely across Jack’s body; Jack was ok after all, was he not? If it was that bad, he would leave and never come back.

 

“I have only one question,” Pitch spoke quietly, _before we put an end to all this._ Jack stilled under his touch. “What’s the real reason you searched so desperately for my past?” Pitch asked, stroking his hands in long, languid strokes along Jack’s arms. He was terrible at comfort he knew, but he didn’t want Jack scared. Not like this, not after what he’d done. Jack may have forgiven him but he still sounded like he might break.

 

“…I just wanted you to belong,” Jack responded, his voice almost lost. “I know what it’s like to have no friends, no family. To not know where you come from. I didn’t want you to be alone Pitch.”  He curled up tighter, pressing himself against Pitch firmly in an attempt to maximise skin-to-skin contact. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He laughed, awkwardly. “I mean, I don’t get it. I’ve seen you down here; you’re not the same as when we fought you. You’re better, and I just…I thought if the Guardians could see that, understand it wasn’t a trick, they would accept you. You wouldn’t have to be in hiding. You… _we_ wouldn’t have to hide,” he tacked on at the end, blushing at the ground.

 

Oh Jack. So innocent. So willing to see the best in people. Jack who worked with those who ignored him for centuries, Jack who bargained with the Bogeyman, Jack who found solace only in his enemy’s arms. There was no defeating that undeniable good streak in him, however. That desire to be right, to be accepted, to play by the rules…a broader version of the rules, but rules all the same. He wanted to be accepted but he also, genuinely, wanted Pitch to be accepted.

 

 _And that’s what you thought Kozmotis could have_ , Pitch suddenly realised. _Acceptance. A home amongst the Guardians. and I…we could…_

No.

 

“Jack,” he said slowly, quietly.

 

_No. No._

 

“What if – “ _No no nononononononono_ “there was a way?”

 

The words were out. The voices screamed, and Pitch felt it as they did, felt it in the widening of Jack’s eyes, in the gaze so painfully alight with sudden hope.

 

“A way?” he whispered, voice a light breath against his chin. Pitch shivered and curled his hands into Jack’s hair, watching the ice spread across his hands.

 

“A way to bring Kozmotis Pitchiner back.”

 

There was silence. Then Jack’s face cracked open, cracked wide open into a smile that barely dared to exist, and Pitch felt his insides crack at the sight of it. Why. Why had he done that, why had he said anything, why how, betrayer, he was a betrayer to himself, to them to ever _ything he would be punished how could hehowdarehewhywhywhy –_

 

“Do you really mean it?”

 

_why?_

 

Because Jack was looking at him like he was actually worth something. Like, in Jack’s eyes, that he was worth more, could do more for him than any of the Guardians could even dream of.

 

“I…I don’t know,” Pitch faltered, and cursed himself. Just what he was cursing himself for he didn’t know. For faltering even now? Or for bringing it up at all? For threatening everything, everything he was, everything he –

 

w –

 

h –

 

y –

 

He took a deep breath.

 

“I’d have to…have to do research. It’s not something that’s ever been considered before.” _I always killed or drove away anyone who’d care enough to try._ “You should go for now. I’ll…see if I can find anything.”

 

He could lie. Could tell Jack he hadn’t found anything, and they could end it all. But Jack was still looking at him like he was perfect, like he hadn’t just the night before left bruises and trauma across Jack’s body in vivid dark marks that were visible even now as the sheets slipped around him.

 

“Ok,” Jack said, and his voice was breathless and giddy with happiness. “I can look too. In North’s library, he must have something! This will be good, Pitch, it really will! It’ll be better for you, for us. You won’t have to be trapped anymore.”

 

_There are different kinds of trapped, Jack._

 

“No. I won’t be down here anymore,” Pitch agreed. Jack was fast to gather his clothes, barely seeming to notice the livid marks on his skin. Pitch couldn’t stop staring at them, even after Jack was fully clothed it was as if they burned brightly through the fabric, emblazoned into Pitch’s vision. Jack spun around, and Pitch’s vision snapped up to his face. Jack leant forward and, more gently than anything Pitch deserved, kissed the bogeyman.

 

“I’ll find some books, then I’ll bring them straight back, ok?” he smiled, and Pitch must have nodded, shown _some_ kind of assent,because next thing, Jack was gone.

 

Pitch felt lost without Jack there. Or rather, he felt lost without a distraction from his own mind. His thoughts were now churning over once again, rage and self-loathing and _stupid stupid, why would you do that? Why would you bring back hatedprisonjailergeneral?_

 

He called Jack’s thoughts to the forefront of his mind. He wouldn’t have to be alone. He could be with Jack all the time. Could be _better_ for Jack.

 

Had he not, after all, thought of it himself many times before? Jack deserved more than him. The run–down bogeyman, with not a single believer as Jack’s own followers grew in number daily? He was a joke. Pitch Black, the creature that had ruled the dark ages, not even fit to hide under beds anymore. What could he give to Jack that Kozmotis Pitchiner could not give more of? Now that the name had been spoken out loud, now that it could no longer be swept out of sight, Pitch found the memories had been unleashed within his mind. There had been a barrier present before, a blockage of his very own design. His past, not the dark ages or even the beginning of the earth but far beyond that, all the way back to the stars and the darkness between them stretched out now in his mind, endless and filled with pain.

 

Oh how he had poured into that darkness, more than ten feet tall, monstrous and greedy and reaching out to swallow all that was in his path. He had devoured stars, leaving more of that gaping darkness in his wake, but it had never been enough. There had never been enough suffering to sate whatever hole was within him. With Jack, that had changed. No – even before that. Just the act of reaching Earth had changed things in him. He had stopped destroying, stopped devouring – and that had been ok.

 

He had given nightmares, of course, and induced fear, but that was so small, so insignificant compared to what he had been responsible for previously. He had moved forward in time, as all creatures did, however much they were loath to admit it. Maybe that was what scared him – as much as he disliked the direction his life had taken, it was still _his life_ , his and no one else’s, and to be…to become Kozmotis…it would be like losing everything he had ever gained. Like turning his memories into a gaping hole of empty space, black and starless.

 

There was a sudden snort beside him, and the motion of shifting away from the nightmares and backing himself into the shadows was still reflex for Pitch. He took a deep breath, eying the mares warily. They kept their burning eyes trained on him, and his face set into a frown, as he stared back stonily. He no longer had the ability to invoke fear in them as he had when he first gathered them, but he was at least able to compose himself until they stopped looking at him like he was their meal. Again. The nightmares eventually backed down, snorting and snuffling as they turned away slowly, leaving him alone. Their leisurely retreat was nothing like the panicked run they used to break into whenever he caught them looking at him like that.

 

Maybe he’d always been afraid. Maybe, without so many words, Pitch had been aware of this new self within him, conscious that this had not always been the way things were; that there had been a man before the monster. A man that he would have to lose himself to bring back.

 

He would be losing a self he now knew he hadn’t always had. Jack thought it was a simple matter of Pitch and Kozmotis being the same person, just with one of them falling on the side of light and the other into darkness. Pitch was almost certain now that Jack was wrong. Maybe…maybe at one point it was true. The daughter. He could feel it hinging on this daughter, whom everyone spoke of, the reason for his existence, the reason the hero had fallen.

 

Pitch froze.

 

His mind scrambled back, over everything Jack had said, over everything they had talked about, everything Jack had told him, had –

 

Jack hadn’t mentioned a daughter. Yet there she was in his mind, a tiny, impossibly delicate, impossibly wild thing, dancing with butterflies within his mind. Pitch crumpled to the ground. The nightmares could have returned and devoured him in that moment and he never would have noticed. Him home wasn’t safe. Jack wasn’t safe. Now his own mind wasn’t safe? He could feel her, so strong, so present…A shining light that refused to leave, refused to let him sink back into the darkness. A beacon, to call back everything else, everything Pitch didn’t want to know.

 

 _Oh Jack,_ he thought, cold, helpless horror spreading though his chest, _what have you done?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack goes exploring in the workshop, and Pitch goes exploring in the written word.

 

Jack was flying like he was dreaming. Energy and pure vitality were streaming through his veins as he spun on the air, thrown up and into the clouds, spreading frost and sending snow spilling from the clouds, infused with glowing blue magic. He was headed straight back for the pole; although the last thing he wanted to do was ask North anymore questions…he couldn’t raise his suspicions, could left him even _guess_ at what Jack was going to do, what _he and Pitch had planned_ …Jack let out a giddy whoop of happiness, grin stretched wide. He couldn’t believe Pitch’s change of heart. Couldn’t believe what Pitch was doing for him.

 

He was lucky, as he skidded into the library, to find it deserted. He would need time to locate the books. Anything to do with the Golden Age would work. Just a hint or a clue, and he’d be able to narrow down his search. After he found the right section in the first place.  A smile slipping across his lips, Jack closed his eyes, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. The wind whistled around him, low and calm. He raised his arms, slowly, feeling the ribbons of air coil around his skin –

 

And disappear into the room. The smile drew, and Jack lifted his feet off of the bookcase he was stood on, and allowed the wind to blow him gently through the room, his feet eventually coming to land on soft carpet. Opening his eyes, he grinned widely, punching the air victoriously. The Golden Age. It wasn’t a large selection of books, compared to the rest of the library, but that wasn’t terribly surprising. Especially considering that some of them…if not _all_ of them came from before the Earth’s existence. Jack pressed his fingers against the spines, realising with irritation that he couldn’t read the language. At least Pitch would be able to decipher it…he hoped.

 

He had just begun to pry on book free from the shelf, hoping for illustrations that would give him a better idea of the content, when the sudden sound of voices entered the library, a mix of the yeti’s garble and Russian.

 

North.

 

Not bothering to heck it first, Jack pulled the book completely free, hefting it into his arms and leaping into the air. It was more than a little difficult to navigate both book and staff, especially whilst riding the winds at great speeds.

 

He reached the Lair in record time, and realised he’d never visited so much in such a short period of time. He cast an anxious glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the hole, hoping for the first time that no one was paying him any attention.

 

He left the reading to Pitch. The Bogeyman needed to reacquaint himself with both language and setting, it seemed, before he would be ready to start searching for specific information. When he’d handed the book to Pitch, the elder spirit had stared at it like he wanted to laugh. Or cry. Jack didn’t know which, and neither made sense, so he tried not to dwell on it. He located himself amongst the cages, sing them like a playground or swing set whilst Pitch’s mutterings filled the cave, his dark figure hunched over the books before him.

 

“I’d forgotten all of this,” Pitch murmured, louder than his other mumblings, and Jack strained to hear. He wasn’t sure the words were even meant for him. “The language…it’s old, but I…it’s still there…” There was an edge to Pitch’s voice, and Jack frowned as he heard it. Pitch was buried deep in the book however, so deep he was beginning to resemble a caricature detective that hid behind newspapers. Jack stifled a laugh, and swung himself around the ledges and staircases of the Lair instead.

 

~

 

It was a couple of hours before Pitch was able to pull his attention away from the book, mind reeling with re-remembered knowledge – and also newly gained knowledge. What Jack wanted was indeed possible. Built on the technique Kozmotis himself would have used to defeat fearlings.

 

“Jack,” the Nightmare King called out, the silvery head emerging from behind one of the cages to peer at him. Something clutched deep inside Pitch’s heart at the sight.

 

“You pulled yourself out of your book?” Jack asked, a flurry of snowflake dotted wind manoeuvring him around the cage and down to tap onto the ground before Pitch.

 

“Yes,” Pitch told him, stepping forward to put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, moving up to Jack’s neck and then his cheek. Despite the amends he’d made by agreeing to Jack’s plan, the spirit still flinched under his touch, only leaning back into the hand after forcefully calming himself. It only took a split second, a microscopic spike of fear…but Pitch felt it.

 

_The one thing he always knew._

 

“I found what we’re looking for too,” Pitch told him, pulling his hand back to reopen the book, running his fingers down the text. It had been easy to find. Surprisingly easy, he’d thought at first, but open reading further realised it wasn’t such a surprise after all.

 

The solution was, as it turned out, built on simple logic. If one had a full container, one could force out the current contents by adding a new one. Like putting pebbles in a cup of water,” Pitch elaborated, when Jack squinted at him. Jack’s face lit up with understanding.

 

“So…we need something to drive the darkness out?” he asked, Pitch confirming with a nod. “Well, what kind of things would work?” Jack asked curiously, floating around to loop his arms around Pitch’s shoulders loosely. Pitch bent his head back down to the open pages of the book, feeling the cool of Jack’s power creeping into his skin, _under_ his skin until they were one and the same, inseparable.

 

“Moonlight would certainly work,” Pitch mused over the book, Jack tracing patterns now across his clothes, smiling faintly at the spiralling fronds of ice. “There was a boy who once used moonlight against me.” Pitch told Jack, surprised by his own memory. He’d lost far more time to darkness than he had realised. Not just his time before earth, but after that, he remembered being cold and frozen…not by Jack’s frost, but by something far purer, more intensely powerful. Then glimpses…

 

“Perhaps your frost too,” Pitch said faintly, lost in memories even as he tried to drag himself back to the present, the ice the only thing anchoring him, “then I’d have a piece of you with me wherever I go,” he added, and watched Jack’s face bloom into a smile.

 

“What would you be?” Jack asked suddenly, as if whatever was on his mind had only just occurred to him. “Since without the fearlings, you wouldn’t be the Bogeyman…if you were Kozmotis again, would you not need to worry about believers?” Jack asked, and his tone was suddenly delicate on the subject that was still sore for them both. “You wouldn’t need children’s belief to feel strong, would you?”

 

“…No,” Pitch admitted. With how quickly this had all spiralled out of his grasp, he hadn’t even stopped to think about the logistics, “I wouldn’t. Kozmotis was a man, not a spirit. A warrior. Although he did live in an age of many magical things.” _Before I wiped them all out of the sky_. Jack stilled, hovering still over Pitch’s shoulder, but rigid.

 

“…Would you still be able to see me afterwards?” he asked, and his voice was so small and so full of fear that Pitch couldn’t help but reach around, pulling the frost spirit into his arms, as close as possible, enveloping him fully, pressed body to body. Jack’s face was pressed against Pitch’s long, grey neck, his breathing ragged. Pitch kept his touch gentle, a wordless apologise for when he had been overly cruel to Jack.

 

“Nothing in this world could ever stop me from seeing you,” Pitch told him, and Jack made a noise against his neck, cool breath fluttering across it and making Pitch shiver.

 

They carried on in such a manner for weeks, the two of them spending more time together in that stretch than they had since their very first meeting. Surprising to Jack, perhaps to both of them, they didn’t fill their spare moments with sex. They both grow tired of reading after a while, Jack more quickly than Pitch, but whereas their fist meetings had been nothing but greetings and goodbyes, linked together with physical gratification this was…different. They sat. They talked. Jack threw a snowball in Pitch’s face, and rather than resort to rage, Pitch had chased Jack through the labyrinth of his Lair without even thinking twice.

 

It was so different, Jack though to himself, shining with happiness as he soared through the air. But he loved it. It was _fun_ , it was easy. _Was this what Kozmotis would be like all the time?_ Despite his solace within his own mind, the thought was shy, Jack’s cheeks flushed with the thought. It must be, mustn’t it? Pitch was getting back his memories. Jack knew first hand how that could change a person, knowing who you were. Was this the change in Pitch? A change from living as the Nightmare King who was doomed to sadness and fear, and instead becoming someone who could love and live happily?

 

It was a beautiful thought. Jack so longed to know if his suspicions were right. He felt certain they must be. His mood dropped a little as he reached the Pole, swinging through an open window and into the library. North was waiting for him. The frost spirit cursed under his breath, but floated down obligingly when North beckoned him.

 

“Whatever it was, I didn’t do it, and if I did do it I had a perfectly justified reason,” he attempted, as an opening line, but North’s face didn’t shift from the sombre lines it had set in.

 

“We are worried about you, Jack,” North told him without preamble. “Myself, Bunny, all of us. You have been so…” he searched for a moment, eyes scanning the air before him as though he could pluck the word right out of it. “…Absent. You have been very absent, both in body but also, I feel, in mind. Even when I see you I feel it is not here you truly are.” Blue eyes fixed him with a piercing look. “Just where are you going and hiding yourself away?”

 

‘ _Oh you know. Down in Pitch’s Lair where we spend our time cuddling and plotting how to turn him back into a hero that you guys will accept.’_ Yeah. Right. Besides, redemption only went so far, and it was only with presenting the after effects of their gamble, a fearling-free Kozmotis, that he could guarantee that the Guardians wouldn’t shoot it down. “I haven’t been…hiding…” Jack began haltingly, searching desperately for a lie to tell. North’s gaze was filled with understanding, however, and Jack knew it was hopeless. North could always see straight through him.

 

“Answer me a different question?” The burly man asked, and Jack nodded tentatively. North echoed the action, satisfied. “Are you going anywhere where you will be in danger?” Jack shook his head instantly. North paused, sizing him up, before letting out a long slow breath. “I want to ask more,” he said heavily, “but I do not wish to be lied to. Just be safe, Jack. That’s all I ask.”

 

Warmth flushed through Jack’s chest, happiness lifting him. They really were worried about him. They _cared_ about him. Guilt weighed heavily on his mind for a few moments, but he brushed it away. He was hiding it for good reasons. Pitch wasn’t evil, not now, but the Guardians would never see that. All Jack was doing was changing things so they finally would. He was doing it for everyone’s benefit. For Pitch, for himself, _and_ for the Guardians.

 

Before he could change his own mind, he threw himself at North in a hug, burying his face against the long white beard. North was momentarily startled, but quickly dissolved into rumbles of laughter, that vibrated through his chest and through Jack’s entire frame. He settled his heavy arms around Jack’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Thanks North,” Jack told him, smiling widely. “I will be carful. I promise.”

 

“No you won’t,” North admonished, but he was still smiling. “Drop in soon, ok Jack?” he asked, releasing his hold on the spirit.

 

“I will!” Jack yelled, the wind buoying him up into the air, and over the shelves. After grabbing the book he needed, he was off and out of the window once again, dancing his way back to Burgess, and back to Pitch’s Lair.

 

Upon returning to the Lair, Jack found Pitch laid back in an armchair, staring into space. Jack was abruptly reminded of North’s stare; the look that answers were dancing before his eyes, as though he could touch them if only he could just reach out.

 

“Pitch?” Jack asked quietly, dropping to his feet and settling at the base of Pitch’s chair, laying the book on the floor. His hands came up to rest on Pitch’s knees, and their presence seemed to draw the older spirit from his daze. “Are you ok?” Jack checked anyway, only half relieved as Pitch’s mouth spread into a tired smile.

 

“Jack,” he greeted softly, and then to Jack’s delight sank down onto the floor beside the frost spirit. His eyes strayed to the book, and Jack opened it quickly, aware of Pitch moving behind him as he opened it to the part he’d thought would be useful. He hadn’t reached it yet as long arms snuck around his middle, pulling him back against Pitch. The Bogeyman had angled his body so it was open towards the winter spirit, and Jack ended up leaning against him, a strange kind of open embrace.

 

“I used to consume stars,” Pitch began in a quiet voice, a dazed voice, “Stars and planets and all the light I could. All the hope and dreams and…well, all the things you and the Guardians protect, I suppose.” Jack turned his head to look up at Pitch, curiosity alight in his gaze, and not looking nearly so scared of Pitch as he should after hearing a story like that. The book lay forgotten before them.

 

“But I thought you said we could use light to expel the fearlings?” he asked, confused. “Won’t you just devour them?”

 

Pitch gave a small smile, tight and not particularly forgiving, “I’m a lot smaller than I was then. Literally and figuratively. You’ll be able to push –“ he faltered, “– push the fearlings right out. Besides,” he bent his neck so he could rest his head atop Jack’s hair, making the boy laugh in a way which sent gentle vibrations through both their bodies as he twisted around to accommodate Pitch, “your magic will be in there too. You will infuse my body with frost and light and cold.”

 

Jack dislodged Pitch’s head in order to twist around more fully, facing him with shining eyes, “Will the frost stay in you? Will it hurt you?” he asked, hands reaching up to clutch at Pitch’s robe. Pitch pulled him forward, until Jack was half onto his lap as he moved his legs,

 

“It won’t hurt me,” he said, confidence in his voice, “I’m tougher than I look.” It was a weak joke, and completely unlike Pitch, but Jack laughed anyway, his grip on Pitch’s clothing relaxing, his knuckles no longer taut white skin. Jack peered up into Pitch’s eyes, and a dazzling smile spread across his face as an idea suddenly occurred to him.

 

“If you get to keep the frost powers, can we make a snow day together?” he asked, thrilled by the prospect, and Pitch laughed, a genuine and bemused sound that seemed to escape without his notice.

 

“We can make as many snow days as you want,” he told Jack, and the frost spirit was pulled fully into Pitch’s arms. There was something sincere about the gesture. There were no hidden motives to it, no removal of clothes or teasing or fighting. It was simple, it was intense. Jack loved it. This was what he wanted; he knew it with absolute certainty. If Pitch could always be there, to hold him like he would never let him go again, like he was the most precious thing in the world…that was all Jack would ever need.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end and a beginning.

**Chapter 6**

 

Pitch wanted to forget his doubts. Forget his troubles, his reserves. He wanted to focus entirely on Jack’s happiness in this, on giving Jack what he wanted… but that wasn’t Pitch’s way. It was Kozmotis’ way, more likely. Pitch wasn’t really certain; he still had no memories of actually being the General. That, more that anything else, truly terrified him. He wanted to forget his fears; he wanted to forget Kozmotis, to forget everything in a clear, all encompassing black sweep of darkness.

 

But forgetting was not easy, especially not as the day drew ever closer, and the churning in Pitch’s abdomen didn’t settle even for a second.

 

“It seems so simple for such a big thing,” Jack commented softly, as he trailed his staff in a circle on the floor of a well-lit part of Pitch’s lair, frosting the ground precisely before cracking his staff down, and shattering the ice to leave behind an indented ring in the floor. A little way away from him, sat the bottle into which he’d been gathering moonbeams. Jack gave it a tentative poke with one foot, watching the bottle wobble and shimmer. “Who knew that could be bottled either,” he mused, watching it wink and flash at him.

 

Pitch said nothing in response, half submerged in shadows as he watched Jack work. He was leaning on something, perhaps shaped like a low, reclining couch, he wasn’t certain. He was used to shadows simply fulfilling his needs without him needing to think through any specific details or requirements for it. He wanted to sit; something was there. He wished to lie back; his body would meet resistance as he leant. He would miss that when the shadows were gone.

 

If that wasn’t a sign of wretched sentimentality, he didn’t know what was.

 

No, he did.

 

Sentimentality was what had happened only nights before. Making jokes to sooth Jack, only to desperately miss the feeling of Jack’s fist in his robes, the closeness it brought, the press of knuckles through his clothing. Jack’s smile had been dazzling, but it simply wasn’t the raw physicality Pitch had wanted. Had always wanted.

 

Sentimentality was being unable to help the laughter than found its way out of his own throat at Jack’s enthusiasm over _snow days_. Sentimentality was gripping someone to your chest so tight you feared they’d break, only for them to grip you back with equal strength. For such an action to be able to overcome any worries, even for a moment…it was sentimentality, but it was Pitch’s. It was something his own, something that was no longer going to be his own – something he had to hand over to Kozmotis.

 

It was Kozmotis Jack was going to be smiling at with such joy from now on. That he would bare himself to, body and soul, to be loved and healed by. To be protected by in ways Pitch couldn’t even dream of protecting him. Kozmotis better appreciate Jack, Pitch thought bitterly, and was swamped with negativity as Jack’s hoodie slid to the side as he stretched forward. Bruises. There were still bruises even thing long after that night. Pitch bit down own his lips hard enough to pierce the skin, not allowing his eyes to stray from the bruise for even a second.

 

They had fought when they’d first met after Easter. When the hole to Pitch’s Lair had finally caved in, when he had no more fear left to give the nightmares, and he had dragged himself to the exit. It had been agonising and slow, even passing through the shadows causing his muscles to spasm and strain, pain pricking through him like bold white light. He had reached the surface at last, pulled himself free from the hole, and allowed himself to lay back, breathing in the freshness of the air, allowing the cool breeze to rush over him.

 

Until, of course, it had become too cold. And Jack Frost had fallen from the skies; delivering a solid kick to Pitch’s gut, and the Bogeyman barely able to respond as he curled over, unable to do much more than claw and bite at Jack, reduce to a wild animal without fear to fuel him. Desperation had compensated for weakness, and they had both been left wounded. Dark bruises blossomed across Pitch’s paper-fragile skin, and Jack sporting several gashes, including an impressive set of parallels from Pitch’s nails across his cheek.

 

Neither had used their powers.

 

Even that didn’t compare to what he saw now, Pitch mused. Jack bearing the marks of Pitch fighting for his existence was one thing, Jack bearing the marks of Pitch’s thoughtless cruelty, his cruelty towards the one being who accepted and _cared_ for him…

 

That was why he was doing this. He had to remember that; it was for Jack, and it would be for himself in the end too. He wouldn’t drive Jack away; he’d draw the boy closer. Jack could stay with a hero; he must leave a villain.

 

The day upon him, and Pitch wanted to lie, and say he wasn’t trembling. To say that he wasn’t frightened, that after being sucked dry he’d never feel it again. But the nightmares were there, hovering at the edges, his fear too intense and sickly to not attract them. Jack was unaware, and Pitch didn’t have a clue whether to be thankful or furious. He wanted Jack to notice. Wanted Jack to be the one to back out, because Pitch didn’t want to do this, not in the slightest, but Jack wanted it, and Jack was his only chance at happiness. Jack glanced at him, as though checking to see if it was ok, to see whether he should begin, but he didn’t notice, Pitch didn’t let him notice, _Jack please, stop this stop now I don’t want this –_

 

“I think we’re ready!” Jack announced, and Pitch wanted to scream. Jack’s eyes were so bright, his skin glowing – Pitch couldn’t tell if it was from dancing with moonbeams for so long, or if Jack had always been so beautiful and he’d just never noticed till he was about to lose it forever.

 

 _No, no, he couldn’t think like that._ Jack could be right; it could still be him that emerged the other side of this.

 

But what if it wasn’t?

 

Pitch stood from the shadows, engulfing Jack in his arms. He pressed and pressed like he could absorb Jack into the shadows that made up his body, into his heart entrapped in his ribcage _like that boy, like so long ago_ , and never release him, not for the belief of every child in the world. Not for the death of a thousand galaxies. Jack’s arms wrapped around him, and Pitch wanted them to brand into his flesh as a lasting, forever reminder. To remind Kozmotis of how lucky he was to have this boy.

 

“Ok,” he heard, and realised it was his own voice, “ok.” He moved forward into the circle Jack had drawn, meticulously designed and checked by them both after finding similar but not quite right designs in the books. It felt so surreal, standing there, over what was nothing more than grooves in the stones. Knowing they could change so much. Jack was looking at him with brimming eyes, a hesitant, beautiful smile across his face.

 

“Now?” his perfect boy asked.

 

“Now,” he replied.

 

Then the bottled moonlight was pouring into the grooves on the floor, travelling towards Pitch’s body. Then the frost came and, really, the bite from the frost was a welcome relief from the screaming pain the moonlight pouring into his body was bringing. It was too fast, too soon, Pitch could feel it filling him, filling his body, the body, and somehow even in the overwhelming fullness he could still feel cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach, before stretching its way up to his chest and throat.

 

It was as the moonlight and frost entered him, that Pitch suddenly knew this was wrong. As he felt his very core begin to shake and shatter, as his centre broke into pieces and his mind splintered at the edges. It was too fast, too much, he’d thought he had more time left, though he’d have longer – Then suddenly he exploded from the inside out, his thoughts fragmenting and shaking until all he could feel was pain and confusion. He was screaming and screaming and couldn’t Jack hear him he wanted jack jack precious jack don’t leave me don t go don t let m e  g o –

 

 

 

i d o n t w a n t t o g o _j a  c k   s  a   v   e m  –_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then blackness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences, and Jack begins to understand his.

The darkness exploded upwards, a screaming mass of fearlings that made Jack drop down to the floor, trying to block the sound from his mind as much as possible. The fearlings scrambled in the high ceilings for a time, before gradually they found cracks, one by one, and soon were pouring out into the world, growing more and more divided as they tried to find escape. Jack threw himself to the ground as they swarmed and screamed, head covered with his arms, not even daring to swing his staff out at them.

 

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of the harrowing screams, Jack uncurled himself, looking around tentatively for any signs of remaining darkness. They appeared to have all fled. More than that, Jack couldn’t see a single nightmare. He was distracted from his observations however, by the long, low groan that seeped through the air behind him. He spun around to see the lean form on the ground shifting faintly, so faintly, and his breath caught.

 

“Pitch…?” Jack breathed out in awe as the man begun to stir. Or should he call him Kozmotis now? Whatever, it didn’t matter, or at least it was something they could take care of later. For now he couldn’t resist leaping forwards, and winding his arms around Kozmotis’ body as gently as he could. He lifted the man up, looking in wonder at the difference in his face. No more grey skin, only a tanned complexion that would probably be darker under different circumstances, drained pale by the strain of what had happened. Jack’s fingers pressed against it carefully, running down one cheek. “…Kozmotis…?” he tried a second time, the name tentative on his lips.

 

Now, there was a reaction. Golden eyes blinked open, and Jack forgot how to breath for a moment. Pitch’s eyes had been gold like the sun hidden behind a blackened moon, but this…this was a gold that rivalled Sandy’s eyes, rivalled the dreamsand. They fit him perfectly and jack leant closer, encouraged. “Kozmotis,” he repeated, and unfocused eyes swung towards him.

 

“…ane…?” came a quiet voice, and Jack leant in, angling his ear as he tried to hear him.

 

“What- what was that? I can’t…”

 

“Emily Jane!” came a second cry, and there was nothing faint about this one, as Kozmotis jerked himself out of Jack’s arms, his head twisting back and forth violently as he looked for something – someone. Emily Jane.

 

His daughter…? Jack wondered, thinking back to North’s story. “Kozmotis… Emily Jane isn’t here,” he said quietly, calmly, as he tried to placate the man. Kozmotis didn’t appear to listen at first, anguish appearing on his face as the words apparently finally registered as he crumpled down, curving in on himself. Jack could hear faint muttering, and he realised it was coming from Kozmotis.

 

“They don’t have her…she’s not here, but that’s fine, it means they don’t have her, they never had her….” Kozmotis eventually looked up, his eyes meeting Jack’s. In a clearer voice, although not without a tremor running through it still, he asked, “I don’t know how you got here, but you must tell me. Where did the fearlings go? Do you know where my daughter is? Is she still safe with my wife?”

 

 _His wife_. Something plunged in Jack’s stomach. Icy cold in an unpleasant way he hadn’t thought it was possible for him to feel, as two thought simultaneously crossed his mind, leaving him with a slow sense of dread.

 

_Kozmotis had had a wife._

 

The fact that Kozmotis had a daughter alone should have alerted Jack to the fact that he would have had a wife, but somehow the thought had not registered. More than her simply existing however, that was bad enough, but Kozmotis was asking for her. He wanted his wife, his daughter: his _family_. His _real_ family. He was still looking at Jack with those eyes empty of familiarity, which brought the second realisation crashing down on him.

 

_Kozmotis didn’t recognise Jack._

 

Jack was certain that nothing would ever feel as terrible as Kozmotis’ eyes meeting his and holding no recognition. He was proven wrong in a matter of seconds, as recognition dawned on the General’s face, horror quickly following across his features.

 

“Wait, I…there was more wasn’t there…” Kozmotis was muttering again, telling the tale only for himself, and not for the silent boy sitting across from him, “I know where the fearlings…where they went, I…” any remaining colour was sapped from his face as long fingers clawed at the ground, and his chest began to rise and fall with barely suppressed panic. “I became a monster,” Kozmotis hissed out in broken gasps, and his eyes met Jack’s again, full of sickening, _sickening_ recognition­-

 

“You…you were _with_ it! With the monster! The two of you…using my body…” Kozmotis suddenly looked like he was about to retch, and Jack’s stomach lurched at the expression on such familiar features. Along with his words, it was too much to bear. He wanted, for the first time, to be caught in a nightmare. To be able to wake up from this, and to have Pitch wrapped around him like a second blanket; far too hot but completely irreplaceable.

 

He’d even be thankful to wake up to a Pitch grinning with mischievous malice, gleeful at catching Jack off-guard and soaking up his fear like intoxication. Jack wondered how Pitch would react if, rather than attempting to wallop him with the staff, or freeze him and his nightmares; Jack had kissed him in sheer relief. Because in the end the nightmare hadn’t been a betrayal of trust, but instead a reminder of just how much Jack wanted Pitch, of how irreplaceable he really was.

 

Irreplaceable, and Jack had changed him into the shivering, scared mess before him.

 

No…it wasn’t a change. Change implied something remained of what had once been there before. Kozmotis Pitchiner was not Pitch Black. Jack had murdered Pitch to bring back Kozmotis.

 

His hands flew to his mouth, and ignoring the startled yell that came from Kozmotis, Jack rocketed back into the deep caves of the lair, curled over in a corner and heaved until he had brought up all there was in his stomach, and continued to choke and cough long after that. Tear streamed down his cheeks and for a moment he gripped his staff tightly enough he thought he might snap it in two.

 

It was a long time before Jack was brave enough to venture back out into the main part of the lair, looking for Kozmotis. He found the man wandering aimlessly, arms wrapped tightly around his middle in a mimicry of comfort, and a failed attempt to hold back the violent shivers which wracked his body. Jack was momentarily concerned that Kozmotis wandering around like he was would attract the nightmares to an easy target, but then Jack realised he hadn’t seen a  single nightmare since returning to find Kozmotis; the corridors were deserted and even the shadows seemed less dense where he walked. Jack didn’t want to ponder the implications of that.

 

Kozmotis ( _had the gall_ ) to look relieved when Jack appeared, although his posture remained stiff and defensive.

 

“I’m sorry for my earlier outburst,” he offered tentatively, and Jack didn’t have the energy to laugh in his face. As though Kozmotis had anything to be sorry for. It was Jack Frost who had ruined everything.

 

_Who makes a mess wherever he goes._

 

“I hope…” Kozmotis’ voice continued, still talking and talking _in that voice_ “that we can still…get along. I need your help, and even besides, you seem to be a good child.” Jack wanted to laugh again, at the words and at the doubtful expression that Kozmotis likely didn’t even realise he was making. But if he began to laugh he would certainly start crying again, and he couldn’t stand the thought of that.

 

“You were also the one to save me,” Kozmotis said finally, attempting to fill the empty space that lay between them with words, and Jack’s lip twitched. “I don’t remember much, only glimpses…but I know you’re the one who saved me.” Kozmotis’ gaze was steadier now, his posture more upright and formal, like a soldier. “Thank you,” the General said, with a deep bow.

 

Jack watched, fascinated by the action. “Yes, I did save you,” he mused out loud, and wondered how the world could be so contrary and backwards.

 

_Jack Frost saved Kozmotis Pitchiner._

_Jack Frost killed Pitch Black._

 

So why wasn’t he happy?

 

Because Pitch Black had loved him, and Kozmotis Pitchiner didn’t. At this point, Jack wondered if he’d even want Kozmotis to love him. He was so different, more than Jack had ever imagined he’d be. The world was cruel. How could he have finally done all the right things, and ended more miserably than he’d began?

 

Moving towards Kozmotis, Jack slipped the snow globe he’d pinched from North’s supplies what felt like a lifetime ago out of his hoodie. Slinging his staff over one shoulder, he grabbed Kozmotis by the hand. It was a terrifyingly, and numbingly, clinical gesture.

 

“This will take us to friends,” he told Kozmotis, flashing him a glimpse of the snow globe, before whispering the location into it quietly and tossing it down to the ground. The portal exploded into life and Jack flew through it, dragging the startled Kozmotis behind him.

 

To say that North had not been expecting them would have been a gross understatement on Jack’s part. From the very, _very_ small amount he had glimpsed coming through the portal, North had been discussing something with the yetis, when the portal had opened and spat out Jack and Kozmotis onto the rug covered floor of the Globe Room. The yeti had jumped back with shock, North keeping his ground until he began to make out the shape behind Jack, the familiar hair, the curve of his body.

 

“Pitch!” he roared, rearing up into animation as he drew one long sabre, charging towards the Nightmare King before he was suddenly blocked by Jack’s slender form. Jack’s face was weary and lined, looking decades older than North recalled, tired and sad.

 

“North, calm down, this isn’t-“ Jack’s voice caught, but he recovered quickly, “isn’t Pitch.” He stood to the side when North finally lowered his weapons, and indicated the man in the black robe, who was now propping himself up off the floor, rising into a standing position. Colour had returned more to his skin now, colouring it a health tan, and his eyes were wide and as golden as Sandy’s. North stared in wonder before glancing to Jack, who was staring at the ground.

 

“Jack…is this…”

 

“May I present,” Jack began wearily, “General Kozmotis Pitchiner of the Golden Age.”

 

North just gaped.

 

“I don’t…what is… _Jack_ ,” the large man settled on finally, his blue eyes meeting Jack’s, begging for an explanation. Before Jack could give one, a process which the winter spirit was fairy certain would wrench his soul apart in the process, Kozmotis had risen to his feet behind him, and stepped forward to address North.

 

“Sir,” he began, and with remarkable poise performed an elegant salute, dipping into a bow. North watched him, stunned. “It is as the boy…as _Jack_ …says. I am Kozmotis Pitchiner. I know you have no reason to trust me, after all that has happened, but I…” he paused, and Jack could see the fatigue that flashed across his face, the effort it was taking the man just to stand, let alone speak, “I ask that you at least hear what I have to say.”

 

North took a step towards Kozmotis, his gaze heavy and steeled. “You will come with me,” he announced finally, clapping a hand on Kozmotis’ shoulder. The General stumbled under the weight of it, but kept himself up. North turned to the yeti, “Prepare two rooms, and bring fruitcake to my study. I will talk with the General here. Jack, I wish for you to stay the night. I will need to speak with you too.”

 

Didn’t that just set his dead heart racing, Jack thought blankly as he watched the two men leave. Maybe, _maybe_ he would have been able to take it. If Kozmotis hadn’t, at that very last moment, turned his head back to look at Jack. Hope bloomed and shattered in Jack’s chest too fast for him to react, leaving him hollow and aching. He barely noticed the yeti grumbling at his shoulder, tugging him by the arm until he turned to give it and perplexed, baleful look. The yeti said something in its confusing, jumbled language, and Jack finally recalled North’s words. Or rather, finally let them sink in.

 

“Yeah…yeah. Whatever. Show me the room,” he mumbled, a fraction of his usual enthusiasm. The yeti noticed, fixing him with a stern look, before apparently deciding it was none of its business. Jack was lead through the curving paths of the Workshop, until the yeti and he reached the small selection of guest rooms North had. Each of the Guardians had their favourite – well, it was their room, in honesty, but they all liked to pretend that it wasn’t a home away from home. As though anyone else was going to enter the room with the veritable nest Bunny had built up, or try to stay in the room Sandy had piled high with dunes and sand castles.

 

Jack’s own favourite bore his marks as well as the others. The air was cool, the window always left swinging open to allow full access to the wind. His distinctive fronds of ice curled across the corners. For the briefest of seconds, upon entering his room and being left by the yeti, Jack felt a moment of calm in his place. It was his special spot; his evidence that he belonged. He threw himself onto the bed, the impact scattering his thoughts for the barest of moments, their weight all the heavier for being forgotten for just that moment. As the tattered remains of memory fell around him, time stretching out far more than it had any right to – _and how had he been so wrong, so blind? How had he not thought, even for a moment, that it could go wrong?_

 

How had he not known, that simply by being Jack Frost, he was dooming himself to failure, and dragging Pitch down in the process?

 

Jack wrenched his mind through their final memories together, those final moments where he’d been so caught up in planning and wishing. The closeness they’d shared, and how gentle Pitch had been. How caring he’d been. Late into the night, Jack forced his mind over every detail, every slow torturous moment of happiness that he hadn’t appreciated enough. He slid from the bed, too comfortable for him to deserve, and paced the room. Mumbled recollections of his words, of Pitch’s words, slipped from his lips, desperate to commit them to his mind, and burn them until the scars stayed. There were no baby teeth for these memories. Jack had to do it alone.

 

In the end, after everything, bringing Kozmotis to the Pole, watching him meet North, seeing how he avoided Jack, it was the smallest detail that did it for him. He and Pitch were never going to make their snow day together. Laughter broke out from between Jack’s teeth and he quickly descended into sobs. He stumbled towards the door he’d locked, collapsing heavily against the smooth, dark wood, and didn’t bother to try and keep himself up. He slid down to the ground, curling up as he wailed, trying to comprehend how everything could have gone just so wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finished this off at 1.30am, don't judge me for ma spelling~
> 
> Also sorry for the long wait.


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